House of Shadows (28 page)

‘You remember that I wish to speak to you, Brother Richard?' said the librarian to the prior. When the other did not respond, he said: ‘The matter cannot wait.' His voice was, like his body, creaky but firm.

‘Come after compline,' said the prior.

Peter seemed about to say something more but, tucking his books under his arm, he nodded to his assistant and the two men rounded the corner of the cloister. Chaucer and Dunton resumed their walk.

‘There is a man who does not live in the higher world or the lower one but only among his books,' said the prior.

‘I can think of worse worlds,' said Geoffrey.

‘No doubt his ceiling is leaking or a bookish mouse has chewed some manuscript.'

Geoffrey wondered that the prior needed to account for the librarian's wish to see him. He thought there'd been a greater urgency in Brother Peter's voice than would be justified by a leaking roof or a trespassing mouse. By now they had wandered out of the cloister and were walking near the chapterhouse. Beyond lay the monks' cemetery, with its modest white stone markers, all identical in the dying light, sheltered by willows and oaks. Richard Dunton gestured at some more scattered buildings. Like all great establishments, Bermondsey Priory was, if not a world unto itself, at least a township. It contained a bakery and an infirmary and, at some distance, even a farm. Around them stretched the flatlands of Surrey rising to gentle hills in the distance. This was marsh country, at risk from high tides and protected by ditches and dykes.

But now the prior took Geoffrey Chaucer by the elbow and, saying that there was something very precious that he wished to show him, led him back in the direction of the great church. Perhaps because of the nearness of water – in the river to the north, in the very ground under their feet – Geoffrey suddenly thought of the church as a stone ship. An upturned ark. Passing down the slype, or covered passage, they entered the building through a door off the cloister.

The interior was deserted save for a couple of figures who were kneeling in prayer. It was between the hours for vespers and compline, the final prayers for the day. Inside, it struck chill after the warmth of the evening. The mighty stone columns seemed to pass into dusk as they climbed towards the vaulted roof. The stained glass in the great rose window at the end of the nave burned with the last of the day. The prior once again guided Chaucer by the elbow until they reached a side chapel. A small cross, made of brass or latten by the look of it and studded with little gems, stood in a niche
behind a grille flanked by burning tapers. Richard Dunton unlatched the grille so that they could see the cross more clearly. It was delicately fashioned and stood scarcely more than the height of a man's hand.

‘I have heard of this,' said Geoffrey. ‘The Bermondsey cross. There is a story that goes with it.'

‘It was found during the time of the first King Henry by members of our order. You know the story, you say?'

‘Not the details of it,' said Geoffrey, sensing Dunton's eagerness to tell the tale. As the two men gazed at the crucifix, the prior recounted how three of the Cluniac monks had been walking and debating by the banks of the River Thames one morning all those centuries before. It was a cloudy, workaday morning. Of course, the brothers should not have been outside the bounds of the priory, nor should they have been engaged in a theological discussion – given their vow of silence they should not have been talking at all, in fact. But perhaps things were not so strict in those days. Legend had it that they were discussing miracles and whether any such wonders were possible in these late times. One of the three monks, Brother James, was especially vociferous in his belief that the age of miracles had passed. At that instant they heard a flap of wings and looked up to see a great bird passing overhead, flying towards the river.

Fear struck deep into their hearts, for it was a larger bird than they had ever seen in their lives, larger even than the largest eagle. They clutched each other in their fear and watched as the bird reached the river. Some object appeared to fall from its beak before it began to climb higher and higher until it was no more than a speck against the clouds. Where before the brothers had been disputing noisily, they were now struck dumb. They were about to return, silent and chastened, to the priory when a narrow ray of sun shot through a hole in the cloud – at the very spot where
the bird had disappeared – and seemed to fasten on a muddy stretch of the foreshore. ‘Like a finger,' said Richard Dunton. ‘That is how it is described in the account left by Brother James. Like a celestial finger directing him and his brothers to this particular point.'

Curiosity got the better of their alarm. They saw something glinting on the foreshore. They picked their way across the mud and muck of the shore until they reached the place. There, planted perpendicular in the mud, was the cross that now stood in front of Geoffrey Chaucer. The gems crusting its arms were untarnished, said Richard Dunton. There was no trace of mud or water on the cross. This, surely, was the very item dropped by the great bird. It was the strongest reproof to Brother James's words about miracles. When the brothers had recovered a little from their astonishment, they left him to guard the cross and ran back to the priory to get the prior who, like the present librarian, went by the name of Peter.

‘Peter was an old man by then,' said Richard Dunton, ‘but witnesses say that he ran to the spot. No one had ever seen him run before. And not just him, but the other brothers and the lay workers, too, since word spread fast that something remarkable had happened. Well, to shorten my tale, everyone agreed that this was a miraculous event beyond question. Brother James and the others were forgiven for their wilful wandering outside the priory, and they were even forgiven for breaking their vows of silence, since the results had been so happy…so extraordinary. The cross was retrieved from the mud. Even that part of it which had been sunk into the river mud emerged fresh and shining. It was as if the metal had been freshly beaten and polished and the gems newly cut. It was ceremoniously carried to this place, and here it has stood for more than two hundred and fifty years.'

As if to mark the close of his story, the prior reached out and latched the grille in front of the cross. While he'd been speaking, Geoffrey had been examining the crucifix more closely. If he hadn't just heard this strange account, he probably wouldn't have spared the cross a second glance. It was a handsome enough item but not much different from what you might find in any religious house or church.

‘You do not keep it locked away?' he said. ‘Many people must wish to see this and even a priory may receive a thief unawares.'

‘We welcome many guests here and there may be thieves among them. But who would dare to take it?' said Dunton, with a rare flash of unworldliness. ‘Besides, this place is always occupied. And the cross will guard itself.'

Geoffrey wasn't so sure about that, but he said nothing. The two men turned away from the niche in the wall. The darkness in the nave had grown deeper, relieved only by the pinprick of scattered candles elsewhere and the embers of light in the western window. Geoffrey wasn't sure either how far the prior believed in the story he'd just told. There had been no trace of doubt or irony in his tones. When it came to miracles, Geoffrey put himself in the sceptics' camp. He didn't think they happened nowadays, or at least not with such convenient timing.

It was easy enough to see how the legend of the miraculous Bermondsey cross might have developed. The object was small enough to be carried in the beak of a large bird, which had probably been attracted by its bright sheen. But a bird wouldn't see much purpose in carrying it far and would soon drop it. By pure chance the cross had landed not in the water but on the Thames foreshore. Probably the monks had witnessed this straightforward event and, wittingly or
otherwise, had transformed it into something wondrous. It couldn't be denied that the cross, like any relic and quite apart from its religious significance, must be useful to the priory. With such a history, it would draw pilgrims and the devout to this marshy spot south of the river.

After the tour, Geoffrey shared the monks' supper in the fraterhouse or refectory in the south cloister. The meal, simple but adequate, was eaten in silence while one of the brothers read from the Scriptures. Accustomed to the constant noise of his own house in Aldgate, Geoffrey relished the peace of it all. Even so, he suspected that after a few days such ordered calm would become tedious. He'd never been tempted by the religious life; he belonged too much to this world.

But, he reflected now, sitting in his guest-chamber on a bright summer's morning, such a life would do very well for a while. And he wasn't so much out of the world after all. The dispute among the artisans working at the foot of the gatehouse showed that. He dipped his quill in the ink pot and prepared himself to blot the white sheet in front of him. He'd had an idea!

All at once there was a violent shout from below, followed by grunts and the sounds of a scuffle. Geoffrey cursed under his breath, rose from his stool and went to the window once more. He was readying himself to call out when he saw that the situation had gone beyond that.

Again two of the masons were standing at a distance from the scene, but this time their faces registered not tension but horror. The man with the claw-like hand was crouching over the fellow he'd been exchanging words with earlier. This man was lying on the ground, and for an instant Geoffrey thought that the other was trying to help him to his feet, since his good hand
seemed to be cradled about the other's neck. Irrelevantly he noted that the man lying down had lost his cap. He had prominent black eyebrows.

The crouching man leaped back. In his fist was clenched the chisel he had been wielding before. Chaucer's gaze flicked from the blood clearly visible on the chisel blade to the blood that was pooling on the ground beneath the fallen man's head. He was shaking violently, his heels thudding against the dry earth. He had no implement in his clenched hands, not even the trowel. If he'd been equipped for a fight, then he had either dropped or been disarmed of his makeshift weapon. Geoffrey had seen enough of death in battle to recognize that this unfortunate person had only a very short time to live.

For some seconds nobody moved. The two onlookers stood transfixed by the shock of what they were seeing, and by fear of the individual with the chisel who remained at a half-crouch a couple of yards from the body whose tremors were even now subsiding. The man held the bloody chisel out as if to ward off an attack, but neither of the others was going to approach him. Though Geoffrey hadn't moved or spoken, the killer must have sensed that he was being watched from the upper window. His covered head shifted upwards and he squinted as before. His black hole of a mouth widened in a type of grin, and Geoffrey felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. At the same time an inner voice told him that he must act, he must get down to the inner court and do something…Still he did not budge.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw flickers of black. The crooked-hand man must have noticed Chaucer's gaze shift, for he turned his head. Half a dozen monks, fresh from their devotions, were rounding the corner of the kitchen, which lay on the eastern side of the
court next to the refectory. As one, like soldiers given a command, they stopped when they saw the scene before them: a man on his back on the ground, another crouched with his arm extended and two more standing by stiff as statues.

Then, as if to make up for the absence of movement, everyone started to act at once. The monks began to pace rapidly towards the group, their habits flapping. Either they were brave or they hadn't fully grasped what was happening. Simultaneously, one of the fellows of the dead man – he must be dead by now; he had stopped shaking, though the blood continued to flow from the wound in his neck – made to close in on the killer, but with great caution.

The claw-handed man was quicker. He darted through the tightening circle, lashing out to left and right with the chisel. Geoffrey turned from the window and left the room at a half-run. When he was halfway down the spiral staircase, which led to the ground floor, he realized he was still clutching the quill pen. For an absurd instant he debated returning to replace the pen on the table. Then he clattered down the stone steps, through the lobby and emerged blinking into the sun of the courtyard.

He skirted the pile of stones and wheelbarrows and leathern buckets and other equipment which was being used to repair the cavity in the wall. No one noticed him. Either they were staring at the corner of the yard by the kitchen or they were themselves moving in that direction. The murderer had evidently slipped around the corner moments before while Geoffrey was descending. A couple of the monks remained behind, together with one of the masons. No one had yet gone near the body.

As Chaucer came out from the shadow of the gatehouse, the mason glanced around, fear and shock on his face. He was little more than a lad, with a round,
freckled face. An apprentice, no doubt. His eyes flicked down to Chaucer's hand. He opened his mouth but no words would come. Geoffrey held up the quill as if to say, ‘Look, it's harmless,' but he wasn't sure whether the lad really took it in. He placed the quill on a nearby block of stone. By now the two monks were bending over the body on the ground. Their black garb reminded Chaucer of crows in a field.

The other mason, the older man, returned. He was panting heavily from the chase, sweat running down his face. His shirt was torn at the shoulder and blood was seeping through. He took off his woollen hat and held it to the wound. He glanced briefly towards the freckle-faced lad but did not look at the body.

‘Scraped me, he did,' he said to Geoffrey when he'd recovered his breath. ‘I left it to them to catch the bastard. They know the holes and corners of this place – God knows there're enough of them.' Chaucer wasn't sure whether he was referring to the brothers who'd taken off after the one-armed fugitive or to the priory's holes and corners.